


The Deep and Starry Ocean

by Not_Morgendorffer



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), Titanic (1997)
Genre: Age Difference, English is not my first language so it will probably feel a bit off here and there, F/M, Gore is a real asshole here, Graham Gore OOC, Jopson is the softest bunny with fists of steel, M/M, Meyer Lanski has no reason to be here other than that, also i had to make up at least some women, and Hickey has Tozer on a short leash, and that i am very very sorry, but i will try to make it up in later chapters, i don't have the slightest clue how any of this will end, i'm rewatching Boardwalk Empire and i love him, so you might say this universe is alternative as it gets, what more can i say apart from that it's Joplittle Titanic AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23427826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_Morgendorffer/pseuds/Not_Morgendorffer
Summary: His musing gaze wandered over a perfectly clear sky, and the stars faded, reflecting in his eyes. Frozen in my place, I imagined how he would turn his head and look at me with aching adoration, the same way I was looking at him. The same way he was looking at the sky. I longed for it. I dreaded it.But when he finally looked at me, I saw his ice blue eyes flicker with tears, and, unable to breathe, I felt like the earth under my feet was gone and I was dissolving in the vastness of that deep and starry ocean.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Lt Edward Little / Lt Graham Gore, Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	1. Noah's Ark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [for_autumn_i_am](https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moodboard for the chapter can be found [here](https://not-morgendorffer.tumblr.com/post/614206638533066752/the-deep-and-starry-ocean-joplittle-titanic-au).

Landscape outside the window was changing fast. Fields were followed by tiny villages, rivers got swallowed by thick forests. My dearest Margaret, holding my hand in hers, was whispering excitedly into my ear. Something about how there will be about 700 people at our wedding and how this unbearably arrogant Loribeth Whiteley will eat up her own gloves with envy, either because there were only 523 people at her own wedding, or because she specifically was not invited to our wedding, or maybe... But I wasn’t paying much attention to her gentle murmur, and instead, with every clank of the metal wheels spinning, felt the neckerchief biting harder and harder into my throat. After a while, it almost felt like I was suffocating, so my fingers jerked nervously to my neck to loosen the knot a little bit, just to find that the neckerchief was barely even holding in place with its soft woolen ends as it is. 

Shifting my gaze from the window to the sofa opposite myself, I realized that my jerky movement did not escape the sharp attention of Margaret's older brother - Graham Gore, who was sitting across the table from us with his wife Carolyn by his right side, who was chattering about something with my sister Jane. Graham stared at my neck for a few moments, and then his gaze met mine, and his lips twisted into a slight grin. Taking advantage of the first lengthy pause in Margaret's stream of consciousness, I kissed the tips of her lace gloved fingers and, muttering my apologies, hurriedly left the restaurant car. I only stopped when I found a completely empty balcony at the end of one of the cars. There, I tore off the pestered neckerchief, loosened my shirt collar, and, holding my face up for the gusts of cool April wind to brush over it, took a cigarette case out of my pocket.

The train carried me and the rest of its passengers with all of their massive baggage and their bright hopes towards the tiny French town of Cherbourg, which was conveniently located right on the bank of the English Channel. From the train station we were to get to its largest dock, and there, in the whirlwind of a lively and noisy crowd we would board the most grandiose of the modern shipbuilding creations - transatlantic liner with a majestic name of “Titanic”. Or at least that's how Graham painted this whole picture, while he casually waved in the air five first-class tickets, surrounded by our ladies, who were sighing admiringly and radiating with anticipation in the middle of the Gore residence salon two months ago in London. Later that evening, it was there, among the noisy circle of guests, that the word “wedding” first started being thrown around, and it was then that I felt for the first time my silk tie turning into a bristly noose.

I remember how, after saying goodbye to the last one of the guests, I took Graham to the side and, overcome by resentment, demanded that he told me the amount I owed him for those tickets. In return, he simply burst out laughing and, patting me on the shoulder in his brash, typically South American manner, said:

“Come on, old sport. Consider this my gift to you and little Margot. An early honeymoon, so to speak! And besides,” he pulled two tickets out of his wallet, thoroughly folded them, deliberately taking his time, into the manner of a starched handkerchief and then proceeded to put them in my chest pocket, “you and I both know that it has been a rather long time since the Little family checks would cash out at any self-respecting bank. Hasn’t it, Ned?”

Pulling on the remains of my cigarette, I bitterly threw the butt on the rails that flashed like a carousel under my feet. After a moment, I exhaled the last of the tobacco smoke through tightly pressed lips and already put my fingers on the car door handle when a stream of white smoke mimicked me over my head, followed by a piercing steam whistle. We were getting close.

Commotion on the pier was even greater than I imagined. Much like the Titanic itself. No matter how gloomy my thoughts were on the way there, even I couldn’t help a joyful smile and the boyish kind of thrill when, stepping out of the car with Margaret on my arm, I threw my head up and realized the true scale of our ship throwing its anchor in the middle of the harbor.

“Why, what do you know!” exclaimed Carolyn Gore, flashing her white pearly teeth playfully in my direction. “Is that a smile that finally paid a visit to our dear Edward’s face?”

“I heard that it’s huge, and even saw photos in the newspaper, but I could never have imagined... this!” I said, gesturing towards the ship.

“Usually my brother is so easy to impress that sometimes, looking at his delights, I have a feeling like we’re thirteen all over again!” laughed Jane, giving her maid a small basket with her Pomeranian spitz, Toto, in it. “But even I must admit, never in my life have I seen such colossus afloat. Only why did it dock so far? Aren’t we supposed to be boarding yet?”

“Well, unfortunately, this, as you so fittingly put it, colossus simply could not fit on the pier, and we all will have to get to our long-awaited cabins with one more stop,” groaned Graham. “Please, ladies, this way.”

And he pointed to a small passage leading directly aboard a smaller steamer, with its name, “Nomadic”, presenting itself in cracked white letters on its stern. Some 20 minutes later a lazily swaying “Nomadic” was already approaching the “Titanic”, with its freshly painted sides towering over us more and more majestically. It took a few more minutes to install and secure the passenger ramp.

“Incredible,” gasped Carolyn, looking up.

“The newspapers wrote that all this heap of iron weighs at least forty thousand tons. What will happen to us, if it decides to sink all of a sudden?” said my sister sceptically.

“I assure you, miss Jane, that such an incident is simply out of the question. Uncle Archibald says that this entire ship, from stern to bow, is designed so that it simply cannot drown,” weighed in Graham.

“No, that can’t be possible!”

“Very well then. Mister Thomas Andrews will be having dinner with us tonight. He personally designed the “Titanic” and knows it like the back of his hand. If you don’t believe me, miss Jane, then simply ask Mr. Andrews yourself,” said Graham, putting his fingers to the brim of his hat.

“Well, I’ll make sure to do just that then, make no doubt about it!” Jane nodded back at him with a mockish sternness and, bursting with laughter right away, signaled to her maid Elsie to accompany her up the ramp.

Finally stepping inside, I found that the plain steel sheathing of our wondrous ark hides the luxury of decoration and interiors, the likes of which I could never even imagine on a ship before. In a matter of minutes, I completely forgot that I was on board the liner, and not in a fine hotel. Panels of various types of wood used in furniture and for decorating the walls filled the air with a warm and sharp smell, hinting that until only recently these panels quietly soaked up sunny juices in some tranquil forest meadow. Crystal in the candelabras and glasses in cupboards caught the last sunset beams, sparkling gleefully with a myriad of tiny flickers. Everything around us stood so still, dressed to the brim in impeccable tidiness and pristine order, but I could feel it all vibrating in anticipation of its first guests.

“Good God,” scoffed Graham, drawing the silver handle of his ebony cane over the carving on one of the wardrobes. Our tour led us to the cabin assigned to him and Carolyn. “Is that what they’re calling ‘neo-baroque style’? This junk should be in some museum or, worst case, in a church.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s really nice,” said Carolyn, stroking the velvet curtains of the bed canopy. “It’s so cozy in here and not at all like our house in Philadelphia. It looks more like the Gracies’ mansion in Edinburgh. Remember, Janie, how much you liked it there?”

“What a capital idea!" exclaimed Graham. "We’ll make it Jane’s room then. You wouldn’t mind now, would you, little miss Little?”

All eyes ended up staring at Jane.

“Sure, though, of course, I haven’t seen my own cabin yet,” she began slowly, taken aback by the absurdity of the whole situation, but, having noted the irritated tapping of the silver handle on the wooden carving of the wardrobe, gave up. “On the other hand, if my dressing table isn’t as elegant as Carolyn’s over here, I won’t settle for anything less than this room.”

Graham clapped his hands loudly.

“Wonderful! So it’s decided. My good man,” he turned to the steward, who was accompanying our procession, “could you please invite Captain Smith to visit us? I would like to discuss this matter with him personally.”

“Gram, just don’t get all riled up, I beg you,” started Carolyn softly, but getting immediately cut down by her husband’s ice-cold gaze, she stopped and nervously straightened the high collar of her traveling cloak.

“Nobody is getting riled up, my love,” said Graham gently at last. “I just want to explain to the Captain, why I am somewhat surprised by the fact that I paid several thousands for several rooms, and yet I’m still forced to hang around with all of my suitcases in the goddamn hallway. And it’s all because the people who were paid to do their job, aren’t capable of telling the difference between the Neo-Baroque and the Old Dutch!”

Finishing the last sentence, his voice began to ring with rage, but he still pulled himself together enough to smile, turn to the steward and say, “That’s all.”

The steward immediately called one of the porters and ordered to go fetch the Captain. I decided that it was more than enough drama for me that day and, having mumbled something about not wanting to be late for dinner, took my leave. Followed by our luggage, I helped Margaret settle in her cabin, and then, saying goodbye to her until dinner, retrieved to my own quarters on the opposite side. There, after tipping the porters, I closed the door behind them and sat down wearily on the bed. The sun has disappeared completely beyond the horizon now, taking its soft beams and hopeful gleam with it. The magic vanished, and I found myself trapped once again.


	2. A Lone Gull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moodboard for the chapter can be found [here](https://not-morgendorffer.tumblr.com/post/614584846181875712/the-deep-and-starry-ocean-joplittle-titanic-au).

“Edward, darling. Remind me, please, when are we arriving to New York?” asked Margaret, delicately lowering her coffee cup on the saucer.

Cool morning light came through the cafe windows. We sat at the table in front of a wall covered in ivy and flowers, having early lunch with Bruce Ismay, director of the White Star Line company that owned the Titanic, and its head designer, Thomas Andrews.

“If I remember correctly, we should disembark on Wednesday, the seventeenth,” I replied.

“Will there be any more stops along the way?” asked Carolyn.

“We’ll be docking at Cork today, aren’t we?” I turned to Mr. Ismay. 

He nodded. “Yes, if everything goes as planned, we will be dropping our anchor there at around noon, maybe sooner.”

Graham reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a yellow gold watch on a shiny polished chain, encrusted with tiny diamonds in the shape of his initials, “G. G”. Despite his otherwise impeccable taste in fashion, Graham loved flashy accessories, and Margaret, a regular of opera and ballet, while in a circle of close friends often teased her brother, on the subject of the “Gypsy Baron”.

“It won’t be long now,” said Graham.

“Cork will be our last stop before we finally set out for open Atlantica,” added Mr. Andrews.

“Oh, well, in this case, we will need to go ashore for a little while, dear," turned Carolyn to her husband. “I want to go to the post office, send a telegram to my mother in Philly. She’ll have to give an order to our house manager, so that he could heat up the house in time for our arrival.”

“You don’t need to  hang about between the ship and the shore once again for that. I’ll send Parker to the office, I’m sure he’ll manage just fine," countered Graham.

“By the way, Mrs. Gore, our radio room is also at your disposal for such services. It’s equipped with the latest telegraph," said Mr. Ismay.

“Are you saying we can send a telegram directly from Titanic? While at sea?” wondered Carolyn.

“Exactly.”

“Incredible. It’s like an actual city on water," smiled Jane dreamily.

“Wireless technologies are truly amazing," I added, nodding.

“Oh, man, I knew I should have invested in the Marconi company when I had the chance," joked Graham somewhat bitterly.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Gore. Record shows that technology is all in all a very unstable investment. But people will never stop buying and selling houses," said Ismay reassuringly.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. It seems to me that if Mr. Andrews continues to build ships like our Titanic, dry-land houses might sooner or later simply go out of fashion," laughed Jane.

“I am very flattered, Miss Little, that you speak so highly of my brainchild," the designer bowed slightly to my sister. “But I’m afraid that not everybody has such enviable immunity to seasickness as you do. Some would still prefer to have a firmer foundation under their feet.”

“Speaking of foundations. Mr. Gore, I was just about to ask if you could recommend me some decent real estate near Atlantic City?” asked Ismay.

“Of course, our company has several options on its list. Would you like to discuss them right now?”

“Sure, if the others present won’t mind. Ladies?”

“Please, go about your business, gentlemen, it’s no bother. And besides, we were about to excuse ourselves anyway. Margaret and I are planning to go to the pool today," said Carolyn, folding her napkin.

“What a wonderful idea. I would love to go for a swim," perked up Jane.

”Will you be joining us, Edward, dear?” asked Margaret.

“No, thank you. It seems like that caviar was a bit too much for my stomach.”

“Oh, no. Should we call you a doctor? Or maybe go lie down in your cabin?” she put her hand on my shoulder, looking concerned.

“Don’t worry, it’s not that bad. I’ll just go for a walk and that’ll fix me in no time. See you later, all right?”

Half an hour later I was strolling along the open deck, watching Titanic enter the Cork harbor and struggling with bouts of nausea. It was windy and the sky was overcast, so the waves grew stronger as we got closer and closer to land. I almost got used to the size of the liner and, of course, standing on its sturdy deck, you could hardly even feel any of that rocking at all. And yet, looking down at the tiny boats swaying around, nose-diving into waves, moving hastily out of the Titanic’s unwavering path, I started wondering if I should return to my cabin, as close to the secluded safety of my toilet room as possible. 

Luckily, soon I got a chance to get distracted - new passengers began to arrive. Concentrating as hard as they could on trying not to fall down, they were climbing the restlessly swinging ladder from the board of a small tender with the help of stewards and disappearing in Titanic’s innards. In a short while, rid of their luggage, they seeped out onto the decks in scattered buzzing trickles and spread along the railings. Most of them were from third class. They shouted something excitedly towards the shore, waving their hands and hats. Many had tears in their eyes, some were even weeping out loud.

Almost all of them were giving up their homes and moving West, to America. Entire families with children fled the land, that could no longer feed them, out of despair and, leaving behind their relatives and friends, embarked on a trip to nowhere. They stood on the brink of the unknown, braced by sheer hope that their tomorrow would be better than their yesterday. And in this I could not help but envy them. The uncertainty of their future made them free, and their longing for the past gave them ground under their feet. But I had nothing to feel sorry about when I thought about the home I left behind, and nothing to look forward to in the future that was laid out before me upon our arrival to America. All I had was the present moment, and even with that I had to pretend like it wasn’t making me sick.

I was pulled out of my brooding trance by sad and piercing sounds of some instrument. Looking around, I found on the lower deck a blond man with a bagpipe, facing the coast. The murmur of voices tailed off slightly, and a small crowd started gathering around him. Women were dabing their eyes with handkerchiefs, men were stroking their mustaches wistfully. One by one, people started singing along with the musician, and in a while their song became loud enough, so I could make out the lyrics lamenting fo the green shores of Ireland and the cold, merciless fate of the Irish people.

And yet, not everyone took the nostalgic melancholy of the bagpipe to heart. Not far from this impromptu concert, a cheerful group of men, the youngest of whom couldn’t have been more than fourteen years old, tried to strike the most daring poses in front of a photocamera. But once the photographer was about to hide under his dark cloak, one of the men, short and brawny, gave him a “hold up” sign and ran off. He then came up to the railing, where another fellow was standing, looking at the people arriving below.

Having thrown his hands around the fellow’s neck, the brawny guy surprised him by pecking his ear and began fervently arguing him into something. Shaking his head with a smile, the fellow was resistant at first, but then after a few good-humoured nudges from his energetic friend, followed him to join in with the others. There I watched as, holding his cap in his hand, he delicately smoothed his already perfectly-combed bluish black hair and stood neatly beside his rowdy friends.

“Smile, gentlemen!” said the photographer, disappearing under his covers.

The camera flash took the youngest of the group by surprise, but the others pretended like they didn’t notice him flinch with fear. When the photographer was done, his subjects started to scatter in all directions - everyone but the dark-haired fellow with his cap in his hands, who just stood there, watching a seagull soar high above in the grey mist. Right that second I felt something scouldering hot burn my hand on the railings. I was shaking off the ashes of my cigarette that smoldered almost to its very root, when I heard a voice right next to me:

“Mr. Little?”

I turned around and found that it was Graham's valet.

“Yes, Parker?”

“Mr. Gore asks you to join him and Mr. Ismay on Mr. Ismay’s deck.”

I frowned.

“Can't it wait?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Gore said it’s urgent”.

I turned around and, glancing around the deck once again, found that the dark-haired fellow was still there in the same daydreaming pose. A few steps away from him the photographer, afraid to take his eyes off the fellow, was rushing to put the photosensitive plate into his camera. Letting out a sigh of regret, I threw the cigarette butt far overboard and followed Parker.

On Mr. Ismay’s private promenade deck - one of the only two on the entire Titanic - Ismay and Graham sat in wicker chairs, carefully examining some sheet of paper.

“Obviously, such large front of works will not be easy to complete in such short time, but I will put my top man to handle it. And there he is. Edward!” called Graham upon seeing me. “Have a seat. I was just telling Mr. Ismay that I want to put you to personally oversee the interior decoration of his new house in Jersey.”

My thoughts muddled as I sat across from him and stared blankly at the sheet full of calculations.

“Rest assured, Mr. Ismay, no one could do a better job at this than Edward,” said Graham.

“I don’t doubt Mr. Little’s talents even for a second, Mr. Gore, but let’s not be too hasty. After all, I haven’t even seen that house. The decision is not made yet.”

“Of course. I just want to ensure that when you do make it, you won’t have to wait. The crew will be at your service straight away, and we’ll make certain that everybody is at their place, won’t we, Edward?”

I looked up and found a mockingly encouraging smile on Graham’s lips. I smiled back at him sourly and went back to glaring at numbers.

“All right, gentlemen, I’ll think about it,” said Ismay. “But enough talking shop for now. After all, we’re here to relax. By the way, I was thinking about visiting the Turkish baths later on. Care to join me?”

“At the baths? By all means,” said Graham, slapping his knee. ‘Let’s say we meet you there in one hour.”

On the way to our apartments I decided not to hold back:

“If you don’t mind, Graham, I would prefer that from now on, before signing me up for any kind of projects, you would discuss it with me first.”

“Why?” smiled Graham, flicking a lighter. The lighter had an image of a hundred-dollar bill on its sides.

“What do you mean, why?”

“I mean, what for? What difference would it make?”

“You’re joking, right? For starters, I’ve never handled a project like that before. What if I don’t know what to do?”

“Who cares! Do you think I had any idea about real estate, when my dad appointed me to supervise my first land deal? No. I just did what I was told to. And now look at me. I’m overseeing our company’s operation across the entire East coast, I’ve got hundreds of people working under me. Sometimes all you have to do is just take a breath and jump right in. And once you’re in, swim to the top. And only to the top, you hear me?”

Finishing that sentence, Graham exhaled a puff of cigarette smoke, hitting me with the smell of tobacco mixed with thick vapours of alcohol. I remembered that there was a half-finished bottle of whiskey on the table between him and Ismay. I furrowed my brow:

“Okay, suppose so. But what if I don’t want to do that at all? What if I just say no? Did you think about that?”

“Yes, but as a matter of fact, I don’t think you really have that much of a choice, Nedly.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, starting to simmer.

“Well, if you think about it, you have no particular occupation. No occupation at all, really. While any respectable man should have at least something sensible to set his energy to, don’t you agree? And as far as I know, all of your passions and inclinations have no real practical value whatsoever. Except for, perhaps, your degree in the history of architecture. It’s not much, but I thought about it and decided that it would at least give you a small advantage for supervising the interior works.

“I don’t have the slightest interest for interiors or real estate, Graham, and you know that.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Your Highness, that the Gore family business simply isn’t to your liking!” laughed Graham, slightly rocking from side to side. He was definitely drunk. “But my family’s money is in real estate. Always has been, always will be. And you will have to get used to that business, because now the Gores’ matters are your matters as well. You don’t want to admit it, I know. Yes, yes, I know. What, you thought I won’t notice the way you’re keeping your distance from us? Like you want nothing to do with us? But I do notice, and it’s driving me insane. Unfortunately, poor little Margot made the mistake of falling in love with you. And there is nothing I can do about it, no matter how much I want to. So the fact remains that you are now a part of our family, which means I’m expecting you...No, I will make  _ sure _ that you act accordingly. You will stand apart no longer, Edward. And the sooner you accept it, the better. For everybody.

We were standing in front of the hallway leading to his cabin, just the two of us. The silence grew heavier. Finally I said, sorely:

“You know, Gram, just because you gave up, doesn’t mean I have to.”

For a few seconds Gram stared at me, his eyes dewy and glistening from whiskey and smoke. My cheeks were burning up. Then he took out his watch and checked the time.

“I’ll see you at the baths. In an hour.” he said in a tone that left no room for argument, and walked away.

Back at my cabin, I went straight to the bathroom and, having undone my collar, started splashing my face with cold water. Soon my fingers started cramping from the cold, so I turned the water off, rubbed my cheeks and wet hair with a fluffy towel and then fixated on my reflection with a glazed look.

My future life started whirling before my eyes like pictures in a mad kaleidoscope: New York, marriage, the house, real estate signs, some children, some parents, some neighbors, more children, bigger house, an office, hopeless emptiness and nothing to breathe, nothing to breathe...The oh-so familiar feeling of a sticky, relentlessly persistent hand once again grabbed me by the throat and began to choke me. The mad pictures were swirling faster and faster, so my head began to spin, and the light started going dark.

And then, with the sound of a camera flash, the whirling stopped and a dazzlingly radiant image froze before my eyes - a young man with neatly combed black hair, his face to the cloudy grey sky, watching a lone gull cut through the fog with its wings. The next moment I felt a muffled thud in my ears and, folding in half, I spewed the remains of what had not so long ago been a chic dinner into the sink.

One hour later I was already in the Turkish baths.

  
  



	3. Cold Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moodboard for the chapter can be found [here](https://not-morgendorffer.tumblr.com/post/617818430888935424/the-deep-and-starry-ocean-joplittle-titanic-au).
> 
> (I have been shamelessly gushing over both the historical and the movie version of Mister Andrews, as well as the Titanic itself, and it reaaally shows.  
> Also, wow, that's one hell of a slow burn, y'all. But next chapter will be up in a couple of days already, and I promise, it will be a GOOD one, folks  
> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> Stay tuned!)

Like with most transtlantic liners of its time, everything on Titanic - from promenade decks to food - was divided into three classes. Its passengers enjoyed their designated class privileges strictly according to their ticket status.

Third class cabins were located on the lowest decks in immediate proximity to the icy water outside, as well as the humming and vibrations of the boiler rooms and engine departments. The cabins were small, but furnishing them with bunk beds allowed to accommodate up to ten people in one room. Many of the cabins had collapsible walls. This was due to the fact that the stream of third-class passengers - almost all of them emigrants - flew across the Atlantic mostly one way. Before departing from America to Europe the walls between empty cabins were disassembled, bunk beds removed, and the cleared space was allocated to storing cargo and mail. I later found out that the corridors running between these cabins looked almost identical and despite the signs on the walls, seemed more like narrow steel labyrinths. Communication between the third class and other classes’ premises was also in many ways restricted - stairs exits from lower decks were blocked with latticed gates, which stewards locked every day after sunset.

Second class consisted mainly of intellectual labour representatives. Their cabins had relatively humble interiors and almost no decorations, accommodated one bunk bed for two, but still had enough room for the passengers to relax on a large sofa and a wardrobe where they could put their belongings. The dining saloon was not very different from the one in the first-class - mainly, by lack of luxurious details in its interior, less comfortable sitting and less sophisticated cuisine. Second class passengers also enjoyed many public spaces - a library, reading rooms, smoking salon, promenade decks.

Just like in the third and second class, the level of designated luxury and comfort within the first class also ranged depending on the cost of the ticket. The cheapest of first-class cabins had simple brass beds, spacious, but modest interiors. The most expensive cabins replicated a small apartment - a few bedrooms, a bathroom, a living room, and a private promenade deck.

In addition to a grand dining saloon, first class passengers could enjoy a number of separate cafes and restaurants. The most moderate among them was “The Veranda” - designed in the style of street cafes, it had a few wicker tables and chairs, its walls decorated with lattice panels, twined with thick green ivy. The most luxurious of them was the restaurant “À La Carte”, where patrons had an opportunity to enjoy ordering from a menu, designed specifically for them and completely to their taste.The furnish of the restaurant included the rarest sorts of wood, the chandeliers flickered with the best crystal, the floor was covered with the softest carpets, and the cutlery was made from the purest silver.

Created for the thickest of society’s crème de la crème, the restaurant catered almost exclusively to the representatives of the so-called “old money”. Cradled by the inheritance, bestowed upon them from the moment they took their first breath, these people have considered all the privilege that came with it to be their exclusive birthright. The representatives of the “new money”, also known as the “nouveau riche”, were accepted to the restaurant, because they paid for the first-class ticket as well, of course. However, they couldn’t expect neither the high service from the staff, nor the high regard or friendliness from the “old money”. And those exceptionally picky guests, who preferred to separate themselves even among their like, were provided with separate parlours - alcoves with sofas and drapes. In one of those secluded corners we were dining the evening after leaving the port of Queenstown. In addition to our usual family circle, there were the captain of Titanic, Edward Smith, our old acquaintance Thomas Andrews, and Benjamin Guggenheim - one of Graham’s business partners - with his young mistress, Leontine.

“What is it, darling, are you cold?” asked Guggenheim worryingly, watching Leontine slightly tremble and fix the fur mantelet over her shoulders.

“Yes, it’s a bit chilly here, isn’t it?”

“It was cold in our cabin tonight as well. Thank God, we could turn on the electric heater,” commented Caroline.

“This year the weather is a lot colder than usual. We’ve been receiving messages about icebergs appearing on the transatlantic route a lot more south than normally in April”, said Captain Smith, shaking his head.

“Icebergs? Is that dangerous?” asked Jane.

“Nothing to worry about, Miss Little. Even though all transatlantic vessels move within their own designated corridors, in case of obvious danger we all telegraph each other. We can even coordinate mutual changes to our corridors, if necessary. I was actually already thinking about changing our further route myself.”

“It’s so nice to know that we can sleep safely with our ship in such reliable hands,” said Margaret, looking at the captain with a smile, and squeezed my hand under the table. The parlour was a bit crowded and her warm shoulder had been touching mine for a while now.

Captain Smith’s cheeks flushed with color under his snow-white beard.

“Thank you, miss. I must say myself what an honour it is, dining in such wonderful company tonight. I think, that’s what I’ll be missing the most - the pleasant conversations with my dear passengers.”

“Missing? What do you mean?” asked Guggenheim, leaning in.

“I regret to tell you that this voyage will be my last. Sadly, I am retiring.”

Low murmur of concern circled around the table.

“It pains me to give up my calling, truly,” nodded the captain. “But I feel that I am leaving at the very height of my career, because I had the chance to be commanding as wonderful of a ship as Titanic. And none of it would be possible if it wasn’t for all of Mister Andrews’ tremendous work.”

“Edward, please...” Mister Andrews lightly raised his hand in a gesture of polite self-defense.

“No, no, Thomas, please, don’t be modest. Not now. This man right here, ladies and gentlemen, not only created a vessel, almost indefectible from an engineering point of view. He also made it entirely for and about people. And I’m not talking just about the passengers’ facilities, because that part is self-evident and goes without saying. No, I also know for a fact that no other of Her Majesty’s ships had a designer who pays such attention and takes such care of their crew as well. Captain’s cabin or stokers’ quarters - it all bears witness to Thomas’s caring hand and touch. I worked on many ships in my thirty years at sea, so take my word when I say that Titanic was incredibly lucky to have you as its creator, Thomas.”

“Thank you, Edward. In turn, I’d like to say that the ship is nothing without its commander. And Titanic couldn’t wish for a better captain than you. A toast to you!” said Thomas, raising his glass.

“And to you!” replied Smith, raising his.

“To both of you!” echoed Graham, and we all rose our glasses for a cheerful celebration.

When the melodious sounds of clinking crystal thinned out, the curtain at the entrance of the parlour pulled back, and a procession of waiters walked In with the main courses. The air immediately filled with head-spinning smells of roasted meat and exquisite shellfish. Fair-haired, beefy-looking man in white uniform gloves put a plate of steak in front of me and, noticing that my glass was empty, leaned over and asked:

“More champagne, sir?”

I turned my head and looked up at him. His eyebrows were arched in a mask of amiability.

“Probably not,” I replied. “I think I would prefer wine to my meat”.

“Excellent choice, sir. Which wine would you like?”

“I fully trust your taste on this one”.

His grey green eyes studied my face for a few moments, and then his expression softened with a polite smile, small dimples defining themselves on his cheeks.

“Very well, sir.” He nodded and left. After a while he returned with a bottle of excellent red wine.

“Is that what the gentleman wanted?” he asked after I made my first sip.

“Yes, it’s quite good,” I said, smiling at him. “Thank you very much, ...?”

“...Solomon,. sir. At your service.”

When the curtain closed behind him, I made another sip of wine and, feeling its swelling heat surge through my body, cut with great appetite into my meat. Half a steak later I realised that this wine did not just go great with steak, but also hit in the head pretty well. Blissfully drifting in languid haze, I watched the faces of people at the table. Everybody looked perfectly lovely and exceptionally elegant.

Even Graham wasn’t too Graham that evening. Flushed from mint liqueur, he was chattering heartily about something with Guggenheim and there was almost no trace of his usual wolfish grin left in his face. I watched two vertical dimples cut into his cheeks near the corners of his mouth every time he burst out with laughter, baring a perfectly straight row of white teeth. The sound of that laughter resonated in me with the echo of the past, and then, emerging from murky depths, like a half-forgotten dream, there came a memory - Graham and Margaret at our family house ten years ago.

Me and Graham just came back from university for Christmas holidays. Graham is entertaining my brothers with wickedly accurate parodies for our professors. I’m laughing like a madman, while my sisters are helping our mother set the table, because she dismissed our servants, so they could spend Christmas with their own families. Margaret - just a frail teenager at that time - appears almost unnoticed among our rowdy circle and gifts everyone with a glass of holiday eggnog from her tray. She leaves my glass for last.

“Merry Christmas, Mister Little,” she says shyly, curtsying lightly, and looks up at me. Her eyes are pearly grey, just like Graham’s.

“Merry Christmas, Margo,” I say, taking my glass from her hands. “But we have a house full of Littles here, so please, call me Edward. That way we won’t get confused for sure, okay?”

I’m babbling nonsense and I know it. I’m babbling loudly because I want to impress everybody at once. At the end of my sentence I wink at Margaret. Her blonde eyelashes tremble a bit when she says:

“Alright...Edward.”

She looks me straight in the eyes, but my glance slides behind her back. There, near the bannister of the wooden staircase, stands Jane, watching the scene. Noticing my glance, she curtsies mockingly, and then, vigorously batting her eyelashes, inaudibly articulates “Edward”.

“Edward!”

A voice and a warm touch pulled me back from my reminiscence. Margaret called my name, putting her hand on my lap and pressing it lightly. I looked around and realised that everyone at the table are looking at me as well, waiting for something.

“Yes?”

“Jane wondered if you remember what was Captain Crozier’s name?” asked Margaret.

“What? I’m sorry, I think I lost track of the conversation.”

“We were discussing recent news about Amundsen’s expedition to the South Pole,” explained Guggenheim. “I mentioned Cape Crozier and Miss Jane told us that your grandfather served as the first lieutenant under Captain Crozier’s command in the expedition for North-West Passage.”

“Do you recall his name, Edward? The Captain’s?”

Lulling golden haze faded away and my hands got sticky with cold sweat. Faces around the table came unpleasantly into focus, their expressions discomfortingly harsh. And only the look in Graham’s eyes seemed almost like a haven.

“His name was Francis,” I heard my own voice as if from afar. “Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier”.

“That’s right, Francis,” nodded Jane. “Franklin was the expedition’s leader name, I got them mixed up.”

“How fascinating,” smiled Captain Smith, catching a shrimp from the saucer with his fork.

“So, once again, I feel that it was really unsporting of Amundsen to hide the news about him heading out for South Pole until the very last moment. I can’t see a single reason as to why he made such a mystery of it,” continued Guggenheim.

“You think there was some ill intent with that on his side?” asked Smith.

“I don’t know. Probably not, of course. But that’s the thing. His actions made everyone start suspecting something. If Amundsen thought there was nothing reprehensible with him preparing an expedition identical to Scott’s, then why did he hide this fact from the public, you know?”

“Incidentally, I heard that there are still no news from Scott. You think something happened to them?” Jane pondered, pulling out a cigarette holder and lighting up.

Margaret’s hand continued to rest upon my lap. Her heat seeped through her glove and the fabric of my pants, filling my stomach with chilling heaviness. I reached for the bottle and caught Graham’s glance once again. Feeling my ears starting to burn up, I poured myself some more wine. The conversation moved on from Scott’s fate at South Pole to prices for carriage horses and Margaret’s hand started making its way higher along my thigh. My vision began to blur ever so slightly and I realised that I won’t be able to hold on much longer.

“Excuse me, I hope nobody would mind if I leave tonight’s dinner a bit earlier?“ asked Margaret, looking around at the guests and at the same time squeezing me under the table in a more than unambiguous manner.

“Oh no, honey, what’s the matter?” asked Caroline, who sat on the left from Margaret.

“I think I have a fever. I’m burning up. Guess I really did get too cold in my cabin yesterday.

“What a pity,” Caroline shook her head sympathetically. “It’s alright. I’ll ask the waiters to bring the desert down to your room then”.

“That’s so kind, but I think it would be best if I just went to bed right away. Edward, honey, will you help me to my room?”

“Of course,” I said, trying to concentrate on keeping a straight face.

After a round of goodbyes and goodnight wishes, we left our stuffy parlour and, walking through the buzzing restaurant saloon, finally got outside, into the fresh air of the upper deck. I put my coat on Margaret’s shoulders and walked with her to her cabin.

“Do you think the electric heater would help?” asked Margaret when we stopped in front of her door.

“Yes, of course, it would. I’ll fetch the steward.”

“Oh no, I don’t think we need to bother them for every tiny thing. You and I can manage by ourselves just fine, can’t we?”

The key turned in the lock, the door opened, the trap slammed shut.

“The heater is over there,” pointed Margaret to the corner next to the window. “Take a look. I’ll be right back.”

Pretending to be busy with the heater, I waited until the bathroom door closed behind her, and then slided tiredly onto the sofa and tried to get my thoughts in a row. Turned out there weren’t a lot of them in the first place. Just the one. About how one way or the other, but there will be a wedding night soon. In a month. And if so, what does it matter, what happens now?

My fiancée emerged from the bathroom with her hair pulled down in soft waves cascading from her shoulders, wearing a translucent peignoir, accentuating and at the same time playfully concealing her forms. Dimming the light of the electric lamp on her bed stand, she walked up to me.

“Any luck with the heater?” she asked, smiling innocently and sitting right next to me.

“No, unfortunately,” I said, looking back at the corner. “It all turned out to be harder than I thought. Maybe, it would be best if we called the steward after all.

When I turned back to her, she smiled and moved closer.

“Maybe. But I know another way to get warmer.”

Without waiting for my reaction, she leaned herself onto my chest and started kissing me - at first gently and timidly, and then passionately and insatiably. It was our third time, being alone together this way. Her hands started unbuttoning my shirt. I thought about all of those guests gathering at our wedding in a month. Just a month. “So what does it matter?” Without breaking the kiss, I put my hands around her waist and pressed her body against mine. She took my collar off and started covering my neck and chest with kisses. I stroked her soft body under the lace of her dress, burying my face in her perfumed golden hair.

Her fingers slid lower and lower, making their way under my belt, until they closed around my flesh. I tensed up and bit my lip. In a few minutes she pulled back and looked at my face.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“No-no, it’s fine. I don’t understand what it is myself.”

“Perhaps I can do something for you? Help you somehow?”

“I don’t know, really. Probably not. I guess I shouldn’t have drunk all that wine at dinner. Sorry”.

“Don’t be,” she said, her voice strained.

She got up from the sofa and straightened her dress, and then walked up to the window, looking out at the night ocean. I started fixing my suit too, when I heard a sharp snicker from the window. I turned my head. Margaret was still standing there with her back to me, crossing her hands on her chest and hugging herself by the shoulders.

“Is that how it’s going to be with us, Edward? Is that what our married life will be like?”

I paused.

“What are you talking about? Of course not. I just had too much to drink this time, that’s all.”

"And what about all the other times?” she exclaimed. “Oh yeah, the last time we were interrupted by your sister, who, by the way, why is she around all the time? And before that you had a fever and a headache all of a sudden. What a coincidence!”

And she quietly burst out with bitter laughter, her shoulders shaking.

“I don’t know what to think, don’t you understand? I’ve done everything I’m supposed to, tried to be perfect. I was the gentlest, the most caring, but nothing works with you, doesn’t it? Caroline said she and Graham had the same problems in the beginning, so she told me to be bolder, helped choose the dress. But it doesn’t work with you!” she repeated, choking on resentment.

I stood there, speechless. She quietly swallowed her tears, squeezing her shoulders tightly. I came closer, turned her to face me and without saying anything, embraced her. She put her head on my shoulder, her body shaking with sobs from time to time. Finally, she pulled back and spoke, her voice hoarse:

“Seven hundred. Seven hundred people and a wasteful of money, and I don’t even know why you’re marrying me.”

"Margaret...”

“Do you even love me, Edward?” she looked up at me. Her pearly grey eyes were glistening with tears.

_Merry Christmas, mister Little._

I thought I knew the right answer.

“Of course, I do. I’ve always loved you, Margo.”

Her eyelashes trembled.

_All right...Edward._

“Listen,” I said, clearing my throat, “we both had a lot to drink today and we’re both tired. Maybe it would be better if we talked about it in the morning?"

“As if the morning will change anything.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t say a thing. We stood there in silence for a bit, as she looked past me out the window, tears streaming gently down her cheeks. I pulled out a handkerchief and tried to dry them away. She took the handkerchief from my hand and started wiping her face herself.

“You know what’s the saddest and, at the same time, the funniest part in all of this?” she said without looking at me. “I’m not thirteen anymore and I haven’t been for a long time. And you still can’t tell me the truth”.

_No, Margo, please, Janie wasn’t mocking you, not at all. Come on, my love, don’t cry, it’s not worth it…_

“Well, that’s enough for me today, I guess.” She pulled away and returned me my handkerchief.

“Give me my bathrobe, would you, please?”

Putting on the robe with her back turned to me, she walked to her dressing table and sat on an ottoman in front of the mirror. I silently watched her brush her hair for a while.

“Should I call your maid?” I asked finally.

“No, thank you, I can manage myself. Good night?”

I nodded and, taking my coat off the footboard of her bed, headed for the door.

"Good night.”


	4. A Warm Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moodboard for this chapter can be found [here](https://not-morgendorffer.tumblr.com/post/618301879394369536/the-deep-and-starry-ocean-joplittle-titanic-au).
> 
> (Tommy is finally heeere! But I also loved writing a bit of that sweet Little/Tozer action. Definitely will do it again. You know...As a treat.)

The clock showed almost half past ten, when I made it to my cabin and closed the door. A short stroll outside on my way from Margaret’s cabin aired out some of the heaviness from my heart and alcohol from my head. At first I thought that it would be best if I went to bed early myself, so I started taking off the crumpled tailcoat. It smelled of dinner, cigarettes and Margaret’s perfume. However, when I got undressed, I realised the aftertaste of strong wine and an unpleasant scene was still rotting in my mouth, and something was telling me that the evening, already lasting for what seemed like an eternity, had only just begun.

Deciding not to set out for an adventure clear-headed, I poured myself a glass of bourbon and, sipping the burning golden liquid neat, started browsing through fresh clothes in my wardrobe. By the time I finished the glass, all options had been considered and it became clear that each one of them will require too much time and energy, none of which I had.

It took another two fingers of bourbon to put back on my dress pants and shirt and complement them with at least somewhat fitting jacket and tie. Putting on the coat, I left my cabin for the second time that evening and headed out straight to the restaurant. It was about a quarter past eleven, when I paused in front of its doors and after a short dispute with the maitre d'hotel about the restaurant being closed and not accepting any more guests, explained:

“Listen, it’ll just be a couple of minutes. I had dinner with my friends here earlier and must have left my cigarette case in there somewhere. One of your men - Solomon, I think, was his name - waited on us. He can help me look for it.”

A few minutes later I was sitting in front of our dinner parlour in a completely deserted restaurant, waiting for my assistant. He soon showed up, without his uniform gloves or jacket this time. Spotting me, he smiled - politely, but warily:

“Good evening, sir. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, hello, Solomon. Sorry to bother you after your shift, but I’m afraid I just won’t manage without you. I seem to have lost my cigarette case somewhere around here. Could you help me find it?”

Jerking up his shoulders, he rolled up the sleeves, baring tanned muscular arms and started searching. Having checked all surfaces and under the table, he examined the floor under each drape that curtained the walls and entrance.

“Any luck?” I asked after a while.

“No, sir. Are you sure you lost it here?”

“I’m really not. But please check behind the sofa, would you? Just in case.”

Sitting opposite, I watched as he flexibly bent over the backboard of the sofa.

“Tell me, Solomon. Does the restaurant always close like this?”

“Eleven o’clock, sir. Every night.”

“Interesting. And what about those who don’t feel like going to bed that early?”

“As far as I know, other gentlemen went to the smoking salon on the other side of the deck. If sir wanted, he could join them as well, I think.”

“Maybe. But the weather is just so great tonight. I would much rather take a stroll in fresh air. And it works miracles for a good night’s sleep, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Do you, by any chance, know anyone who’d be willing to come along, Solomon?”

He was silent for a while and then replied with his back still turned to me:

“I think, there’s a chance you find someone to your interests at the smoking salon as well, sir.”

“I’m afraid, the majority of that salon’s regulars would find my interests far too unconventional.”

There was no response. Instead he got up from his knees and said, brushing his elbows:

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t seem to find your cigarette case anywhere.”

“Really? How odd,” I said with a soft chuckle. Then I proceeded to pull a cigarette case out of my jacket pocket and, flipping the lid open, offered him the cigarettes without saying a word.

He looked at me rather dubiously, and after a moment’s hesitation took one. I lit up and taking a lazy drag, glanced lingeringly at my companion.

“So, what do you say? Still can’t think of anyone who’d like to keep a gentleman some good company?”

Rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers, he seemed to be contemplating something. Finally, he stuck the cigarette behind his ear, looked up at me and said:

“You know, back home I always liked to go out for a walk in the evenings. I miss that here, at sea. Although, I’m afraid, I’m not too much for conversations.”

“Well, what do you know. It just so happens that tonight I’m gravely tired of talking.”

Twenty minutes later we were already walking along the right border of the lowest promenade deck. Solomon got rid of his uniform and was now dressed in simple wool pants with suspenders, striped linen shirt, canvas cap with a short blinder and canvas coat, unbuttoned and wide open. The sky over our heads was covered with occasional fuzzy clouds, illuminated sharply by the moon nested among them. 

The night was cold. Maybe that is why we saw only a couple of people on our stroll, scurrying away with their collars turned up high and their hands deep in their pockets. Occasionally the serenity was disturbed by the sounds of voices and laughter from the cabins we were passing by. Me and my companion, however, did not exchange a single word through the entirety of our promenade.

Finally, the right border ended and we were far away from the cabins, all alone on the moonlit stern. Walking up to the very edge of the deck and leaning on the handrails, we watched the water for some time.

“It’s chilly, isn’t it?” I finally broke the silence, threw the cigarette butt overboard and rubbed my hands, numbed by the wind, together.

“Yeah, you could use a warmer coat,” said my companion, without looking up from the water.

“Well, I actually had a few ideas about how to get warmer here. But for now,” I said and, taking the cap off his head, put it on, "this will have to do, I guess?”

Solomon slowly turned his head and glared at me intensely from under his coarse eyebrows. I looked him straight in the eyes and smiled. 

The next thing I knew, he grabbed me by the lapels of my coat and, almost lifting me off the ground, pressed me with one swift tug into the wall of a nearby storage bunker. His cap flew off my head and fell onto the deck. I groaned, startled, and for a moment my face was distorted by panic and fear. I was almost certain about what would happen next.

Still pressing me into the cold wood of the bunker, Solomon studied me intently.

“So...Edward?” he asked, finally, and noticing my confusion, clarified himself. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Edward?”

“Yes.” I tried really hard not to clank my teeth.

“Yeah. I heard that girl mention it earlier. You know, the one that was all over you at dinner. That your wife?”

Completely at a loss about where this was heading, I decided to act as calm as possible. So I nodded.

“Almost. Fiancée.”

“She’s pretty,” a grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “But the thing is, you don’t really care if she’s pretty or not, do you? Because she’s not what you really truly want, isn’t she...?”

He let go of me and, leaning in closely, whispered right into my ear:

“...Edward?”

A dizzying joy rushed over me, showering me with a thousand thrilling needles. Still cautious, I slowly reached out and tentatively stroked his strong jaw. The light stubble on his cheeks prickled my palm, the electrifying sensation sending countless tingles down my spine. Keeping the stern expression on his face, Solomon did not move, but when my fingers began to make their way towards his lips, he grabbed my hand, pulled it away from his face and pinned it to the wall above my head.

“Did I say you could touch me?” he asked, moving his lips closer to mine and immediately pulling away.

Without making a sound or looking away, I shook my head. He took my second wrist and pulled it together in with the first one.  
“Someone has to teach you, spoiled rich boys, some proper manners.”

Still holding my arms above my head, he pushed my legs apart commandingly with his boot, and stuck his thigh between mine and lifted it, pressing sensually into my groin. The surprise and languid sweetness of this touch made me gasp and, parting my lips, I let out a hoarse moan. Solomon seemed to expect that, as he immediately shut me up with a deep lingering kiss. The heat of his body was intoxicating and his thigh between my legs drove me crazy with its incessant and assertive movement. Few moments into our kiss, I felt his arousal firm on my thigh and started quivering with impatience. I was almost out of breath when he broke off the kiss as suddenly as he started it. Watching me breathe heavily, he asked with a satisfied smile:

“So, will you behave?”

Still unable to speak, I could only nod. Jerking up his chin, he loosened his grip and released my hands. Then, glancing at my gasping mouth, he reached out, collected a drop of saliva gathered in the corner of my lips with his middle finger and, sticking out the tip of his tongue, gently licked the finger. My knees weakened with desire.

Resting his palms on my hips, he waited for me to catch my breath and then began to undo my tie and unbutton my collar. I watched the movements of his strong arms, his bare neck and the small ringlets of his curly hair, golden in the moonlight. He uncovered my chest and buried his nose in the crevice between my neck and my collarbone, caressing my skin with hot blows of his breath. Closing my eyes, I bowed my head and inhaled the spicy scent of his hair. It smelled deliciously of cigarettes, fried meat and soap. His left hand went on to rest on the back of my neck and his right hand - on my lower back. Then he slowly ran his left fingers through my hair, and his right fingers slid under the belt of my pants and my underwear.

I felt as if my knees were about to give out completely when he lightly bit my earlobe. Next thing I knew, he pulled my hair into a fist and threw my head back, grabbing me tightly by the buttocks and pressing me into himself. Clutching at his broad shoulders with both hands, I wriggled and writhed while his right hand played scorchingly with my flesh, and his lips sucked on the skin on my neck, leaving wet burning bruises. Occasionally, when he used his teeth, I let out a careless moan, and then his fingers would tighten in my hair, reminding me of the rules. 

Having played with me enough, he pulled back and, making a few steps back, tried to catch his breath, cupping a substantial bulge, swollen south of his stomach. For a while we just stared into each other's eyes, and the thick vapor, silver from the moonlight, streamed from our lips. Finally his gaze slid down my body.

“Go on,” he said, nodding to my belt.

He went down to his knees and got to work, skillfully wasting me with his lips and tongue. Tantalized to my very brink, I quickly spent into his hot, wet mouth, biting on my own fist to drown out the cascade of moans. My legs were still shaking when he got up and wiped himself with his sleeve. He picked up his cap, brushed it and then, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear - I thought it was a miracle it even managed to stay there - asked me for a light. 

My arms filled with blissful leadlike weariness as I held the lighter up to his face. As I started combing my hair with my fingers and thinking of what to say or do next, Solomon leaned his back on the railing and looked at his feet, while smoking. After a few drags, he looked up at me, and I was already about to offer taking care of him as well, when all of a sudden he coughed loudly and called:

“We’re done!”

I didn’t even have time to wonder, when I saw a short, pale man coming out from around the corner of the storage bunker behind my back. He had copper-red hair almost down to his shoulders, scanty moustache and a long, pointy nose. Put together, all of this made him somewhat resemble a rat. The coat he was wearing was at least one size larger than necessary, and someone clearly chewed on the ends of a dark red scarf wrapped several times around his neck.

Striding confidently, without giving me even the slightest regard, he casually walked past me towards Solomon. Taking his hands out of his pockets, the redhead pulled the cigarette from Solomon's fingers and took a drag. Blissfully exhaling a puff of smoke, he smiled and, approvingly raising his eyebrows, looked at Solomon:

“These are all right, actually. Is that his?” He turned to me. “Is this yours?”

He got no response.

“You got another one of those to share?” he asked cheekily.

“What is going on here? Who are you?” I asked, finally.

“Of course, the formalities, always with the formalities.” The rat-faced man shook his head. “I can assure you though, that my name has nothing to do with our current business. The main thing is that, I assume, you've already got to know my partner here, haven’t you?”

“What business? What partner? What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t tell him?” He turned to Solomon.

The latter glanced at him, looking somewhat cornered.

“Oh, what a pity,” said the man. “Let me fix that unfortunate overlook.”

He came closer and, clearing his throat, put his hands forward like a seasoned public speaker.

“You see, me and my partner over there, we are entrepreneurs of a sort. In a very niche, but very high-demand sphere. You can’t even imagine, how high of a demand. We are providing very special services to very special gentlemen. Like yourself. My partner here is the chief...executor, if you will, and I take care of the organisational and financial side of the business. Our service range is very diverse, and tonight you were enjoying our best package. Correct?” He turned to Solomon once again. Solomon looked off to the side.

“Excellent,” nodded the man and turned back to me. “First-class service for first-class gentlemen, am I right? For this reason, it will be our honour if you paid us our designated five pounds. I have to warn you though, we don’t take payments by check, or in kind...Unfortunately.”

Saying that, he winked at me and laughed a pleasant, almost refined laughter. Realizing that I was trapped, I tried to pull myself together, but couldn’t find anything better to say, other than:

“I don’t have any money.”

“Pardon?” The man jerked his neck sharply and pricked up his ears.

“I said, I don’t have any money,” I repeated morosely.

There was a pause, when the redhead simply looked at me, his nostrils flaring and light steamy trickles streaming out of them.  
“How unfortunate!” He exclaimed finally and turned to his accomplice. “Did you know he has no money?”

Solomon just shrugged. The rat bastard sighed.

“Well, that’s a real shame,” he said and took a few steps closer. “No, of course, I understand. Excellent cigarettes and first-class tickets aren’t cheap these days. But look at it from our point of view. The services have been provided, in full, and we can’t just walk away with empty pockets, can we? So how about we all try and figure a mutually beneficial way out of this unpleasant situation, what do you say?”

“Listen!” I exclaimed, finally deciding to get out of my cornered position. “Noone told me about any payment, and whoever you claim you are, what you’re doing here looks a lot like extortion. But it won’t work. So let me go, or I promise you, you will regret it.”

I took a step forward and was about to pass him by, when the man shook his head in disappointment.

“That’s too bad,” he said, “See, I was hoping we could reach an agreement. But, oh, well..”

He grabbed me by the collar of my coat and turned me to face him, but I knocked his hands off and put up my fists, prepared to defend myself or attack, if necessary. The redhead smiled and, peacefully throwing his hands up, slowly took a step back, so for a moment I thought that he decided not to get involved after all. But before I could bat an eyelash, he ducked slightly and a crushing blow landed between my ribs straight into my solar plexus.

I didn’t expect such strength in such a feeble-looking man and fell onto the deck like a sack of potatoes, in a violent coughing fit. Without waiting around for me to come to my senses, the redhead took a swing and buried the toe of his boot right into my stomach. I doubled over and groaned. He kept on landing the kicks all over me, until his partner finally decided to intervene.

“Cornelius, that’s enough!” 

“Why?” asked the redhead, continuing to methodically work my sides.

“You’ll break his ribs like that!”

“And what about it?”

The one called Cornelius stopped and, turning abruptly, stared at his friend's face. Finding no answer there, he lowered his gaze.  
“So that’s what this is about,” he drawled, contemplating the unmistakable swelling, still clearly defined in Solomon’s pants. “You like him, so now you feel sorry for him, is that it? Even after I told you over and over again to keep it in your fucking pants!”

“It has nothing to do...”

“I’m trying to build a business here, Solomon. For both of us. And it’s because of assholes like this one,” and he kicked me again, “that we had to run. Or have you already forgotten what it’s like - to go starving for weeks?”

Solomon was silent for a moment.

“No, I haven’t. Still, go easy on him. Emptying pockets is one thing. But this...Besides, what if he reports us?”

“And says what? That he got mugged by the guy who sucked him off after a capital dinner? Don’t be a twit. Better get over here and search for his wallet, or a watch, or...something.”

Solomon reluctantly approached us and sank next to us on one knee, but before he had the chance to reach out to me, a sudden outraged shout interrupted him:

“Hey, you two!”

The moon got overcast and the deck was all in the shade, so when I turned on my side, still trying to catch my breath, I only saw a dark silhouette of some man. My attackers both raised their heads.

“The fuck do you want?” snarled the redhead, flipping long strands of loosened hair away from his forehead to take a better look at the stranger.

“Let him go.”

“Listen, kid, I’d move along, if I were you” Solomon mumbled glumly.

“And if I were you, I’d take my hands off him right this second.”

“Young man,” addressed him the redhead with mocking politeness. “This gentleman owes us money. And you’re sticking your nose in something that is none of your business.”

“I don’t care. I said leave him alone. Now. I’m not gonna say it again.”

“Right, I’ve had enough of this,” said Cornelius, spitting angrily on the floor. “I’ve tried to be civil, but you, people, don’t do civil, apparently.”

Sliding his foot forward, he drew a butterfly knife from behind the low shaft of his boot.

“Finish with him,” he nodded at me to Solomon. “I’ll take care of this one.”

But as soon as he turned to face his opponent, opening his knife with one hand, the stranger threw aside the lapel of his coat, and behind his belt I saw the outline of a small notebook, and next to that - the grip of a gun.

“I promise you, you don’t want to do this,” said the stranger, measuring out each word.

Cornelius curiously assessed the presented weapon, tilting his head to the side like a bird and casually playing with his knife. Without looking at them, Solomon began to search me. Stumbling upon my silver cigarette case, he pulled it out of my pocket and froze with indecision.

“Fine. You win. We’re leaving,” said Cornelius at last and made a step back, pretending to retreat, and then took a sharp turn and made a test swing at the enemy with his knife. But the man didn’t falter. In a flash, he pulled the gun from his belt and, instantly cocking it, aimed the barrel directly at his opponent’s hand holding the knife.

In the middle of silence, the sound of the notebook falling out from behind the stranger’s belt and landing onto the deck boards, seemed as deafening as a gunshot. Solomon froze, still holding my cigarette case, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding in front of us. The redhead snickered.

“You sure about your aim there?” he asked his opponent. “Because in case it’s not, I won’t be giving you another chance.”

“I’ve shot smaller hawks than you,” said the stranger calmly. “So my aim’s fine, don’t you worry. I just don’t want to kill you. Yet.”

Coming out of his stupor, Solomon looked at me, then at the cigarette case in his hand. Without giving it a second thought, he put the item back into my pocket and got up.

“Cornelius!” he called. “There’s nothing. He’s empty. Come on. It’s not worth it.”

Cornelius didn’t reply and just kept staring at the barrel of a gun pointed at him. Another eternity seemed to had passed before he finally backed off.

“Well,” he said, folding away his knife and putting it back into his boot as if nothing happened. “You’re right. So why ruin such a wonderful evening? Good night, gentlemen...And see you soon.” 

Nodding to Solomon, he stepped over me and walked away. Only after making sure that they both left for good, the stranger exhaled heavily and, hiding his gun, rushed up to me.

“Hey, mister! Are you hurt?”

I tried to answer, but only managed to wheeze something inaudible. At first he checked me for injuries, and then, holding me by the shoulders, lifted me up and set me down so that I could lean my back against the wall. Then he pulled a soft clean handkerchief from his vest pocket and, carefully holding the back of my head, put it on my bleeding lip.

“Here. Press it. Press it hard.”

At that moment, the wind tore the veil of clouds from the crescent moon, and cold beams illuminated the face of my savior. It turned out to be that same kid I saw earlier on the third-class deck watching a seagull. Struck by such an incredible coincidence, I even forgot about the pain for a little bit. Meanwhile, he carefully looked me in the eyes and, slowly moving his fingers in front of my face, checking my reaction, asked:

“Can you speak?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice raspy.

“Great. Well, it looks like there aren’t any serious wounds, so that’s good. If only I got here earlier. I was walking nearby, heard someone getting beat up and ran as fast as I could. Can you believe those bastards! It’s too bad there’s no police here. Or is there? If there isn’t, that’s just stupid. There should be police here!”

Pressing the handkerchief to my lip, I watched in amusement this jumbled stream of consciousness. Then it became obvious that he himself was severely distressed. His voice and his jaw were trembling, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Noticing my gaze, he shook his head:

“I’m sorry. Usually I’m a lot calmer than this. But these things just really piss me off. It’s not supposed to happen here at all. You’d think it was a cruise, and not a London alleyway.

“And yet, you took a weapon with you on this cruise.”

“Oh, that. I can’t stand that thing, actually. My friend Meyer gave it to me for my birthday and said: “America awaits, my boy! Get used to guns!”

He sighed.

“So, I’m getting used to it.”

“And I, for once, am really glad about it. I don’t know what would happen to me if you didn’t interrupt those guys. And weapon certainly did come in handy. So, tell your friend I’m grateful.”

“Yes, well. He just likes playing gangster, that’s all. Although, judging from what happened here tonight, he’s not the only one.”

I pulled the handkerchief from my lip and examined it. It was made of plain linen, and the initials “T.J.” were embroidered in one of its corner with a skillful hand. There wasn’t too much blood. No need for stitches this time.

“Would you be so kind?” I said, attempting to get up. He carefully lifted me to my feet, but I immediately leaned back against the wall, struggling with a rush of dizziness.

“You should really see a doctor though,” said the kid, watching me anxiously.

“No, it’s fine. It’ll pass.”

"Are you travelling by yourself? Maybe, I can go fetch someone for you?”

“No, it’s okay, really. Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

He clearly didn’t believe me.

“Let me at least come along with you? Just to be safe?”

“It’ll be my pleasure.”

We were about to go, when he remembered something.

“Hold on,” he said, and rushed back to pick up his notebook from the plank floor. I caught a glimpse of some handwritten text on its pages, accompanied by something that looked like drawings of the constellations.

Carefully straightening the pages crumpled from the fall, he hid the notebook, and we slowly headed out along the left side of the ship. For a while we were walking in silence. My chaperon kept glancing at me, checking my condition. So, I tried to ignore the excruciating pain eating away at my sides and back, and walked as upright and energetic as possible.

“So, what happened there? What did those guys want from you?” he broke the silence finally. 

I grimaced, biting my broken lip, but he interpreted my reaction in his own way.

“No, you’re right, it’s better if you don’t say,“ he protested. “It’s not my business.”

“No, it’s not that.” I smiled. “But there’s also not much to tell, really. They wanted money, I didn’t have any, they got angry. The story is as old as time and just as boring. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all.”

“That’s terrible. I’m sorry, but I still think you should report them, at least to the head of security. Those are dangerous folk.”

“I would love to, but I don’t even know their names,” I said, lying, of course.

“One of them called the other Cornelius.”

I frowned. The prospect of telling anyone about what had happened, and even more so, answering questions about how I ended up in such an unpleasant situation - unpleasant to say the least - did not look inviting at all.

“Perhaps,” I started carefully. “But if they really are as dangerous as they seem, they probably had to enlist as passengers under fake names as well. And I doubt that anyone would open a witch hunt in the middle of a cruise.”

My companion agreed hesitantly, but seemed to get upset and sink into his own thoughts for a little while. I did not know what else to say, so I decided to slow my pace down to try and spend more time with him. Despite that, we were soon at the steps leading to the first class decks. The kid took off his cap and, fixing his hair carefully, looked at me with a smile.

My companion agreed hesitantly, but seemed to get upset and sink into his own thoughts for a little while. I did not know what else to say, so I decided to slow my pace down to try and spend more time with him. Despite that, we were soon at the steps leading to the first class decks. The kid took off his cap and, fixing his hair carefully, looked at me with a smile.

“Well, this is where our paths part, I guess.”

“Right.” I said. “Thank you again for saving me.”

He got flustered.

“It’s nothing, really. Anyone would have done that.”

Now, when the shock of what happened began to wear off, I had a chance to take a good look at my saviour. His face looked not much over seventeen. He had gentle blue eyes and a kind smile, his pale cheeks touched up by a bright red flush of embarrassment. I handed him his handkerchief.

“Keep it,” he said. “My mom has sewn plenty of these, and your lip still doesn’t look too good. It’s no rush.”

“All right, thank you. But I still owe you. I’ll figure out, how I can repay my debt and I will give you the handkerchief back. Deal?”

He nodded.

“Deal”.

“My name is Edward, by the way. Edward Little.” I said, offering a handshake. He politely took off his knitted glove and shook my hand. His palm was warm and dry, but its soft touch struck me like a lightning bolt.

“And what’s your name?” I asked. “I'd love to know to whom I owe this handkerchief...and my life?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, of course,” he smiled awkwardly. His hand still rested in mine. “I’m Thomas. Thomas Jopson.”


End file.
